


In Loco Parentis

by purewanderlust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag for the scene in Dark Side of the Moon where Sam and Dean discuss Sam's running away in Flagstaff. Maybe mild Sam/Dean if you squint. Mentions of verbal and physical abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loco Parentis

Arizona, at the beginning of the summer, John decides, is one of the most miserable places on the planet. He slams the door to the Impala and the sun beats down relentlessly, immediately making him wish he was back in the cool air conditioning of the car. A line of sweat creeps down his back, and his boots feel constricting and hot, covered in the dusty red clay native to the area.

John trudges around to the trunk to get his duffle, eager to get into the shade of the motel room, even though he knows the air conditioning was broken when he left--how many days ago? Thirteen? Fourteen? It was supposed to be an easy hunt, a quetzalcoatl down on the Mexican border, but the damn thing had been smarter than John had anticipated and a week had bled into two before he'd finally gotten the chance to torch the creature. He can still smell burning feathers and scales in his nostrils. 

Fourteen days in the hot Mexican sun though can really do a guy in and John fantasizes about a cold beer and a soft mattress as he makes his way to the motel room door. School had let out for the summer the day after John left, so he'll get to see Sammy as well as Dean first thing, though he isn't so sure how much his youngest wants to see him. He knows Sam blames him for a lot of things, most recently, Dean's dropping out of school, just a month before graduation. Though why Dean needs a high school diploma to kill evil sons-of-bitches, John isn't sure, but Sam sure thought it was important. 

Hopefully Dean can at least manage to keep his brother from warmongering for at least this evening. John is so damn tired. 

He starts to reach for the motel room door, but it's yanked open from inside and he immediately collides with Dean, who is hurrying out of the room with a duffle bag over his shoulder, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

Dean recoils and goes immediately still. "You're back...sir." 

John nods absently, brushing past his son and into the blessed shade of the room. "Where are you going, Dean?"

"Did you get it? Are you hurt?"

John frowns. It isn't like his oldest to ignore a direct question. "Ganked the motherfucker around 2 am and the only hurt I'm suffering is sleep deprivation. Where are you going?" 

Dean twitches, the hand on the doorknob tightening and John's instinct kicks into high gear. He can sense trouble from a mile away, but it doesn't take a genius to tell that something is wrong. "Take off those sunglasses, boy, and tell me what you're doing right now." 

Dean reaches up and slowly takes the sunglasses off. His bottle-green eyes--so much like Mary's--are wide with panic and ringed by what John thinks, for a wild moment, are bruises. After a second, he realizes that they're actually sleep rings, standing out starkly against his son's pale skin. Dean looks like he hasn't slept in days. 

"Dad..." Dean pushes the door closed and turns to face him, expression stoic, except for that unnerving fear in his eyes. 

"What's going on here, Dean?" John asks in a low voice. "Where is your brother?" 

Dean flinches sharply. "I--I don't know." 

There's a sickeningly long moment of silence, punctuated only by the sound of screaming children in the park across the street. John can't seem to wrench his eyes from Dean's face.

"You want to run that by me one more time?" he practically growls, "Because I can't believe I heard what I just thought I heard." 

"Dad, I don't know where Sammy is." Dean repeats, taking another, cautious step in his direction, "He ran off right--"

John doesn't even realize he is moving until the back of his hand connects with his oldest's cheekbone. Dean staggers back and catches himself on the edge of the nearest mattress, looking up at John with wide, shocked (Mary's green) eyes. Already, there is a bruise blossoming high on his cheek, and John realizes with horrifying clarity that the center of the bruise is a perfect indentation of his wedding band.

Immediately, he wants to apologize, to drop to his knees and promise it will never happen again. Until this moment, John has never raised a hand to either of his boys, even when he was fully loaded after a night at the bar; has never been one of the abusive assholes that he considers just as monstrous as the things he kills. 

But after the initial shock, Dean's expression slides seamlessly into one of resignation and self-depreciation, and John abruptly remembers that Sammy is gone.

"How the fuck could you let this happen, Dean?" he bellows, flinging his duffle down on the bed, "What the hell kind of irresponsible idiocy could have been more important than protecting your brother? You realize that if Sam is dead, that's on you." 

Dean has been sitting on the edge of the bed, taking the verbal lashing without moving, but at the last bit he gives a full-body flinch, like John had hit him again. And by God, he almost wants to. Sammy, his little fourteen year-old Sammy is gone. 

"How long has he been gone, Dean? Answer me!"  
"Uh, he disappeared two days after you left, sir." Dean says quietly, his eyes fixed on John's feet.

"Your brother has been missing for twelve days and you didn't contact me?" John snarls, so angry that he can't even look at Dean right now. He knows that Dean had no way of contacting him, but he's too furious to take that into consideration. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Dean doesn't try to defend himself. "I don't know, sir." 

"Have you been looking for him?"

It's the first thing he's said that draws any emotion from his eldest. Dean's head snaps up and his eyes light dangerously. "Of course I have! Every single day since he's been gone." 

"Then why haven't you found him yet?" John means to sound accusing, but his voice comes out anxious. If Dean couldn't find Sammy, that might mean there's nothing left to find. 

"I don't think he wants to be found." Dean's answer is so soft, John almost doesn't hear it. "None of the salt lines were broken, there was no sign of a struggle and...his bag was gone." 

John starts. "You think he ran away." Dean nods. "On your watch," John can't help adding, and Dean's shoulders stiffen.

"I was only gone for a few--"

"I really don't want to hear your excuses," John growls warningly, "You weren't here and now Sam is gone. This is your fault, you understand me?" He almost mentions the shtriga incident, but Dean already looks acutely miserable and the guilt for raising his hand against his son is starting to bubble up again. "Have you narrowed it down at all?"

Dean nods, instantly on the floor, digging in his duffle. "I know he's still in Flagstaff, but I can't pin down where." He withdraws a map, covered in different colored stickers and hands it to John. "The blue are places I ruled out, the gold are where I've checked, and the red are places I still have to check."

John nods decisively. "We'll go now. It should be a lot quicker with the car than it was on foot." He reaches toward Dean, to direct him towards the door, but his son jerks back like he's jabbed at him with a cattle prod and John drops his hand awkwardly. "C'mon."

Dean obediently follows him out the door, but stays out of arm's reach, whether by accident or intention, John doesn't know. 

All he does know is that he's never felt quite so much like a fuck-up as he does right now.

*

They're staking out the second red star on Dean's map, a little ramshackle trailer on the edge of town, when the curtain twitches and Dean spies familiar floppy brown hair. His heart jumps and skitters for a moment before regaining control of itself. Seeing Sammy, safe, alive, and apparently whole makes the last two miserable weeks, and the horrible hour just past fade in Dean's mind and he wants to cry with relief.

"Let me go in after him, sir." he requests without looking at his father, "I think I can get him to come back with us without a fight." 

John eyes him shrewdly, probably trying to determine if Dean can do it right. Dean wouldn't really blame him for doubting; he's proven twice now that he can't do anything right when it comes to Sam. 

"Alright." his father says, finally, after a weighty moment. "Just hurry up."

"No getting mad at Sammy about this," Dean adds in a rush, hand on the door handle. "This is my fault, don't blame him." 

John stares at him for a long moment, wearing an expression that Dean can't read. Then he scrubs his hand over his face, suddenly looking very old. "Fine, Dean, just--take care of it, okay?" 

Dean still feels the warm pulse of blood under his eye where the bruise is forming and he nods. He's not going to screw up again.

He gets out of the car and approaches the trailer. It's child's play, picking the lock silently and pushing the door inwards. There's a line of salt across the threshold, at least, but Dean isn't a monster, steps over it deftly and creeps towards the bedroom at the end of the trailer. Sam is lying on his stomach, back to Dean, with a book propped up on the pillows. If he wanted to, Dean could jump Sam right now and his little brother wouldn't even know what hit him.

But Dean's not really feeling like getting punched in the face at the moment, so he opts to just clear his throat instead. 

Sam is on his feet, in a defensive pose, almost instantly, knife tight in his grip. Then his brain catches up with his body and he slumps. "What are you doing here?" 

For a minute, Dean can't breath, a surprising surge of anger swelling in his chest at Sam's flippant tone. "What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here, Sam?" 

His little brother tips his chin defiantly. "Living on my own. I can take care of myself, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam, we're going home and we aren't going to argue about it anymore." 

Of course Sam isn't listening. Sam never listens. "Seriously, Dean, this is better. I can take care of myself out here and you don't have to go out and so stupid shit to get money." 

Dean's stomach drops a little. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

"Don't act like I'm dumb, Dean, I know we were out of money because Dad forgot to pay the rent." 

Dean wants to argue, but he can't find the words. Sam is right. Dad had given him $100 before he left with instructions to make it last. Two days later--the same day Sam disappeared--the landlord had come pounding on the door, demanding three weeks' overdue rent. 

"I know you didn't leave to get pizza, either." Sam continues brutally, "You were gonna go hustle or shark, o--or...or, something worse. I don't want you to do stupid stuff like that for me."

"Hey, I was hungry too, Sammy," Dean tries for a joke, but it falls flat, and they stare at each other. "Just, c'mon, man, it's not a big deal, and Dad is back now, so--"

"Dean, what happened to your face?" Sam cuts him off abruptly.

The bruise throbs dully at the reminder and Dean feels the rest of his face heating. "Oh, nothin'. Just made friends with the wrong end of a pool cue." he says as smoothly as he can manage.

"While you were hustling?" Sam's voice takes on a dark edge, "Because that looks a lot more like a backhand than anything."

"Nah, just some sore losers at the pool table, dude." Dean repeats, feeling a little nauseous, "Let's just go. Dad's waiting in the car."

This seems to have the opposite effect that Dean was hoping for, because Sam's eyes zero in on him with even more intensity. "What did he say when he found out I'd gone?"

Dean shrugs, "Nothing much, I took care of it, okay? He just knows you walked when I was out."

"Does he know you were out because we ran out of money?"

"Not important." Dean answers shortly, "Now come on, we're going home." 

Sam huffs out a huge sigh, but goes to pick up his duffle anyway, following Dean to the door. Dean waits until his little brother has crossed the threshold and then flicks off the lights, giving the cabin one last dark glare before snapping the door shut. 

*

"Have you been sitting there the whole time I've been gone?" Dean's voice breaks through Sam's thoughts and he looks up. His brother is standing in the doorway with a drink tray and two bags from the diner down the street. 

"Uh, yeah, I guess so." Sam says, a little thrown. Dean drops down onto the other bed and tosses him one of the bags before he starts toeing off his boots. "Hey. Is this the same motel we stayed in last time we were in Flagstaff?"

Dean suddenly goes completely still on the other bed, paper bag crumpling in his clenched fist. "I dunno, Sammy, that was like fifteen years ago." his voice is flat and completely unconvincing. "I call dibs on the first shower." 

"You aren't gonna eat first?" Sam points out and his brother's jaw twitches. 

"Course I am. Just wanted to make sure I had first dibs." 

"Dean." 

His brother glances up at him, gaze even. "Sam." 

"Why do you hate Flagstaff so much? Almost as much as Palo Alto." Sam's pushing, and he doesn't really know why; he just remembers when Dean had found him in the cabin, and his brother's expression when the same place made a cameo in Sam's Heaven. Being back in town just reminded him of it all and how strange the whole thing had been. If Sam's memory serves correctly, Dad hadn't so much as spoken crossly about his runaway act, let alone actually yelled at him. 

"I don't hate Flagstaff," Dean scoffs, "I'm here, aren't I?" 

"Because four people got ripped apart by a chupacabra last week." 

"Okay, so Flagstaff isn't my favorite place in the world, sue me," Dean snaps, "Maybe if your whiny teenage ass hadn't run off on me." 

"Isn't this where you got in that bar fight?" Sam presses. He's not sure why it matters so much, why he's digging up aches from fifteen years ago, but he's always been too curious for his own good.

Dean looks a little stymied by that one. "What bar fight?" 

"The one you got that scar from." Sam gestures towards his brother's face, to the nearly invisible white line under his brother's right eye. 

Awareness dawns on Dean's face and his hand flies up to his cheek. "Yeah, bar fight." His fingers flutter lightly over the scar, nervous and Sam reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulls his hand away.

"That's what you told me, then." Sam murmurs, pressing his fingertips gently to the scar, "That it was a bar fight. Just like you told Dad you were out with some girl when I ran." 

"What are you doing, Sammy?" Dean asks and his voice is uneven. 

"I'm sorry." Sam says quietly, "You shouldn't have had to take any of it, from me or Dad." He looks his brother straight in the eyes. "Please stop thinking you weren't good enough, or that you didn't take good enough care of us, because you always did." Before he can panic and talk himself out of it, Sam swoops forward and places is a gentle kiss right over Dean's scar. "Both of us would've been toast without you." 

Sam climbs to his feet, then, and tosses off a quick "goin' for a walk." He chances a look back at his brother on his way out the door. Dean's still frozen on the edge of the bed, a stunned expression on his face. Maybe he's really thinking about what Sam said.

Sam can only hope that his brother will finally start to believe it after all this time.


End file.
